


Incubus

by The_Anglophile



Series: All Beatles Fic by The_Anglophile [6]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Anglophile/pseuds/The_Anglophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George was tired of being treated like a lesser being by John, but he doubted it would change any time soon.  John was far too busy living it up in the decadent Reeperbahn to give two shits about bonding with his younger bandmate.  But it was John's overindulgence, oddly enough, that finally caused his change of heart and the beginnings of real respect between himself and George.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incubus

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own rights to the name “Beatles”, nor am I affiliated with EMI, Capitol records, or any person named herein. No infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction.
> 
> Author’s Note: Warnings are at the end of the story. 
> 
> I wrote this way back in 2006, but thought it was good enough to post. Hope you agree!

  


George sat watching them furtively from his bunk, working up the courage to say something. The two had been hunched over that same piece of paper for over forty-five minutes, and he thought he could give them a useful suggestion. As Paul gazed at the page and strummed a few experimental chords, George at last worked up his nerve and said, “Maybe you could try Em7? I think it would sound better than....” And here he trailed off as John looked up, affixing him with an icy stare. Paul avoided looking at him altogether and continued strumming as though he had not spoken.

George wilted under John’s harsh gaze and returned his attention to the letter he’d been writing. After a few tense moments of near-silence, he pushed himself off of his bunk and made for the door. _Last time_ I _try to help with their song-writing,_ he thought bitterly.

  


Later... 

  


Tendrils of smoke escaped George’s lips as he exhaled, drifting slowly towards the ceiling and glowing ephemerally in the dim yellow light of the club. The sour, doughy odour of beer hit his nostrils and he thought he might vomit. When had he last eaten? He was playing fast, as they all were, and his fingers were sore as hell from trying to make his piece-of-shit guitar work, but it didn’t really feel that way. He looked over at John, who was singing lead at the moment, and smirked. John looked like some kind of demon, droplets of saliva flying from his mouth with every word, his hair plastered to his face and neck with sweat and Vaseline, his entire body trembling from the handful of uppers he’d taken before the set, as he bounced in rhythm to the music. George knew that he himself probably didn’t look much better than John. 

He had taken some pills too, but he could feel them starting to wear off. The downward slide was coming. He always hated that part the most – coming down. It made you feel like shit. He glanced anxiously back at the others, wondering if they might have any extra prellies, and if they did, whether they would share. He doubted it.

He squinted out through the smoky darkness of the dank club, sorting through the shadowed faces, trying to spot the waiter that had given them the pills. There he was. George wondered whether anyone would notice if he stopped playing to go get some more, but soon reconsidered the idea, reasoning that it was probably nearing end of their set for the night and he wouldn’t get any sleep if he took more. John and Stu sure as hell wouldn’t, as many pills as they’d taken. He and Paul hadn’t had so many, luckily, and Pete had had the least of any of them, preferring pints to prellies. Beer didn’t make _him_ sleepy; it made him more aggressive if anything, George thought, and he _was_ certainly pounding away on the drums. 

“George!” John was calling him. He shook his head and tried to focus through the chemical buzz. John was grinning insanely at him. He’d stopped singing. Jam time.

Paul was playing as fast as he could go, hitting a lot of bad notes on the way. His amp was buzzing a little too. Somebody’d spilled a beer on it. When his fingers tired, he let out a feral yell and jumped into the air – John’s signal to go.

John tore into the song where Paul had left off, attempting to play even faster than Paul had. He succeeded, but only by botching most of the chords he played. Despite this, no one in the audience seemed to care, as there was none of the usual heckling that always accompanied their worst playing.

 _God, we’re terrible._ George thought, _No one’s even listening to us._ He almost laughed out loud. He didn’t feel that bad about it tonight.

John slammed out one more angry, off-key chord and then fell to his knees and started humping his guitar - George’s signal to go.

George nearly fell over laughing, but managed to continue the song in a somewhat coherent way, deciding not to sacrifice quality for speed in his playing. The others were still in hysterics from John’s monkeyshines, instruments abandoned, meaning that George was the only one playing for the time being.

He was very aware of this fact and took extra care not to screw up, paying close attention to where he put his fingers on the fret board. He was really starting to get into it by the time the rest of the band had recovered from their laughing fit. The audience soon took notice of his playing and some drunken whistles and cheers began to drift up to the stage. 

He grinned shyly and obliged their appreciative feedback by playing louder and with more flair than usual.

John’s face, which was glistening with sweat and still red from laughing, turned suddenly hard. He stood up abruptly and started yelling at the audience. “We’ve been playing all night and you just take notice now?! Motherfucking krauts!”

George quickly stopped playing and backed away from John. He wouldn’t come out and say it, but George knew the real reason that John was angry: He was jealous. The others knew it too.

“Come off it, John.” Paul said with an annoyed frown. John ignored him.

“Yes, stop being an ass.” Stu added fiercely. John scowled, but ended his tirade. Stuart then deliberately began a slow solo on his bass to deter any row that John might want to start, glaring meaningfully at him. John sat down on an amp and let out an angry sigh. Much to George’s relief he remained there until Stu had finished playing, at which point he seemed to have calmed down considerably.

Pete stood up from the drum kit and stretched, saying, “Thank god it’s the end of our set; I’m about to collapse.” He then yawned.

George surprised himself by yawning as well. He hadn’t realised he was sleepy. The pills had almost entirely worn off though, and that alone made him want to curl up and fall asleep. He packed up with the rest of the band, carefully avoiding John’s gaze. 

Guitar case and amp in hand, he trotted quickly off the stage and toward the door, wanting simply to go to bed. The exhaustion was at last hitting him. He set down his guitar case for a moment to open the door, and was blinded by the dazzling morning sun which burst through the doorway into the dimly lit room, washing everything in its path with the bluish-white luminescence of dawn. 

Groans of protest arose from within the club and George hurried outside, squinting, not wanting to incur the wrath of the drunken sailors and thugs within. The morning air was clear and bit chilly, contrasting greatly to the steamy, hazy atmosphere of the Kaiserkeller. George shivered a little and walked swiftly down the street in the direction of the cinema where their room was. It felt good to be breathing fresh air once again, he thought, but it would feel even better to crawl into bed. His stomach growled when he caught the scent of something frying, but he walked steadily onward, too tired to be bothered with food. Stu and John would probably go out for breakfast, he figured, and Paul might too, but Pete would surely be coming to bed soon. _Glad he’s in the other room... he snores terribly._

At long last George reached the Bambi Kino. He navigated around a pile of garbage and down four steps to the side door, which opened onto a narrow hallway. A short walk down the hall and he reached one of the two rooms the five of them had been given: windowless, cramped, dirty little spaces directly behind the movie screen, sparsely equipped with saggy bunk beds and a single bare light bulb each.

Luckily for him, no film was being shown at the time, so he wouldn’t have to try to sleep with the sounds of a gunfight or car chase blazing in his ears.

 _Sleep!_ He thought happily, unceremoniously dumping his guitar and amp by the door and peeling off his sweaty leather jacket. He flopped onto his bunk with a sigh, kicked off his shoes, and promptly fell asleep, not bothering to take the rest of his clothes off.

  


* * * * *

  


Alcohol was certainly a magical elixir, John thought, as he stirred his second cup of Scotch-laced Earl Grey. It could make you forget all kinds of things. Forget that your crappy little band didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Forget that you’d had a miserable night and wanted to give up and go home for the hundredth time. Forget that your best friend was irritating the hell out of you by yapping in your ear too early in the morning...

John and Stu had crawled into a dingy cafe for something to eat after their set and Stu was attempting to have a conversation with John without much luck. John wasn’t in the mood for talking. He just pretended to listen.

He opened his bottle of Scotch and added a little more of the magical liquid to his tea. He really wanted to forget reality for a while. At least until he was in a better mood. He took a long sip of the potent brew he had just made and nodded attentively at Stuart in an effort to seem as though he were listening.

Stuart knitted his brow and poked at the eggs on his plate for a while before saying, “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” John shook his head, his face expressionless.

Stu returned his gaze to his plate, a smile slowly spreading over his sleep-deprived features. “You’d think I’d know better than to try talking to you in the morning by now.” He said.

John nodded as though it were a known fact and took another swallow of his tea, staring blankly at Stuart.

Stuart snorted in amusement and turned to look out the cafe window, still smiling slightly. After a few minutes he scooted toward the glass, watching something outside intently. 

John leaned curiously across the table to see what he was looking at. It was a hooker. A particularly young, pretty one. She had stopped just in front of the cafe and was smoking a cigarette, her petite form reclining tantalizingly against a street sign. John’s head was buzzing lightly from the Scotch and as he eyed the young call-girl he became aware of the alcohol’s other main effect on him. His leather trousers were getting uncomfortably tight in the crotch area and he forced himself to look away from the window. He sighed shakily and leaned back in his seat.

Stuart smirked at him knowingly. “You wanna?” he asked, his eyes flashing lecherously.

“But we don’ ‘ave money.” John said.

“Yeah we do!” Stu said triumphantly, “Look what I picked up at the Kaiser.” He pulled a wad of German bills out of his jacket pocket and slapped them on the table, making the dishes rattle.

John’s eyes widened. “Where’d ya get that?” he exclaimed.

“Some poor sod who couldn’t hold his ale. He was so smashed I could’a taken his clothes too.” Stuart looked smug.

John grinned at him and, taking a swig directly from the bottle of Scotch, said, “Let’s do it!” Drunken warmth was beginning to spread throughout his body and he felt almost good. As good as Scotch could make you feel anyway.

The two stood up and started for the door, but Stuart halted in his tracks, rifling urgently through his pockets. John looked at him questioningly.

“I don’t have any condoms.” he said.

“So what?” John replied, getting a little annoyed.

“ _So what?_ So you remember what happened to that bloke in the other band? You wanna end up like him?”

John grimaced, remembering the story (in disgustingly vivid detail) as it had been described to him. The poor fellow had been sick as dog. “No,” he admitted, “I’ll go get some from Paul. He won’t be asleep yet.” He paused and then shoved the Scotch at Stu and added: “Go charm ‘er; she probably won’t wanna do us both.” He then exited the cafe and walked as swiftly as his now unsteady legs would carry him in the direction of the cinema.

  


John’s mind kept replaying the image of the hooker’s ill-concealed breasts and buttocks, so by the time he’d reached the cinema he was thoroughly flustered. He stumbled down the short flight of steps to the side door and hurried in only to scrape to a halt a moment later. “Shit.” he said. The hall light had burned out. His quest for a shag was becoming more difficult with every step.

He reached out for the wall and groped his way along it to their living quarters. He fumbled over to Paul and Pete’s room, pushed the door cautiously open and was welcomed by more darkness and light snoring from within. He made for the centre of the tiny space, where he knew the string from the light bulb hung, but stumbled over something on his way and nearly fell on his face. “Shit!” he said for the second time.

He at last reached the string and yanked it angrily, making the bulb bounce slightly as it sputtered to life. Miraculously, no one in the room had woken up to all this disturbance. John singled out Paul with his eyes, who was sprawled, snoring, on the cot furthest from the door. John lurched in his direction, a little shaky on his feet, and began rifling through Paul’s jacket, which was still on its owner.

 _Where the hell are they?_ he thought impatiently as he dug through Paul’s pockets. _He’s always got plenty of the damn things._ Paul frowned slightly in his sleep and one of his arms made a feeble attempt to swat John away.

“Oh fuck off, you idiot,” John reprimanded, pushing the arm back down. Paul remained asleep.

No condoms were going to appear in the jacket, John decided, so he pushed a hand into one of the pockets of Paul’s tight-fitting jeans. He probably would have hesitated in doing this had he been sober, but this was not the case at the moment. By the time he’d felt that there were no condoms to be had, he had also felt a few other things, and he started getting hard again. Paul sighed luxuriously in his sleep and then rolled over to face the wall. 

“Damn you,” John grumbled drunkenly at him, rubbing his crotch absently. He could hardly wait to get back to Stuart and the whore. He knew there _had_ to be some condoms lurking around somewhere, and decided to check in the other room.

He turned off the light and quietly crept into the room he shared with George and Stu. Trying to be quiet, he switched on the light and scanned the room for any promising prospects. His eyes came to rest on Stuart’s duffel bag. He lurched toward it and began digging through its contents. “Got ‘em!” he murmured triumphantly. 

He then turned around reaching for the light pull, but hesitated a moment, catching sight of George on the bed closest to the door. His thin, leather-clad legs were spread out across the mattress, one knee slightly angled. He had an arm behind his head and a hand resting on his stomach, which rose and fell as he breathed.

Observing the seemingly innocent form, John felt a pang of guilt at having ruined George’s moment in the spotlight during the night’s set. _Sure he’s just a kid, but he deserves some recognition too, right?_ The alcohol was making John feel generous. He normally considered George just a little too young to be an equal. And he already had Paul; he didn’t need _more_ competition. Still, the unsettling desire to apologise in some way was bubbling up in his being. He stood drunkenly contemplating, his brow furrowed, for some minutes; ideas being slow to appear through the haze of Scotch that floated across his brain.

It didn’t help that he still had sex on his mind. The longer he stared at George’s lean, young body lying there invitingly on the bed, the more he mixed up the ideas of shagging and apologising. 

He couldn’t help himself. He reached up and switched off the light. 

  


George dreamed that someone was kissing him. His sleeping mind formed the image of a beautiful blonde girl, whose warm, wet mouth dipped down again and again to meld with his in quick, gentle kisses. He gladly reciprocated. Slowly, the girl began to poke her tongue between his lips as she kissed him, and he obligingly opened his mouth for her. It was at this point that a part of George’s brain began to suspect that he wasn’t entirely dreaming. He struggled to stay asleep, not wanting the dream to end, but as he came into consciousness he realised that someone was lying partially on top of him. Just as his brain registered this fact, a pair of hands pressed his shoulders into the bed and his mouth was once again enveloped by another. His eyes snapped open, but he was engulfed in pure darkness.

Whoever it was was heavy, and had a leg wrapped around his hips. He could barely move. A hand slid under him and began rubbing his back as the foreign lips and tongue continued to explore his mouth. George wanted to know who the mysterious person was, and twisted his head away to try to say something, but the hand that had been caressing him moments before now roughly grabbed his face and pushed it back to where it had been, at which point the tongue was thrust to its full length into his mouth. Just when he thought he would suffocate, the tongue pulled out and the mouth was removed from his.

George struggled to get away, but the other person quickly straddled his hips and held his arms down, pinning him to the bed. George decided that whoever it was had to be male to be so strong, and this certainly didn’t make him feel any better. He was confirmed in his suspicions when he felt a tell-tale hard bulge pressing against his leg. The anonymous other then began thrusting his cock hard against George’s crotch, so hard in fact that it hurt. George yelped with pain and tried to squirm away, but the stranger simply put a hand firmly over his mouth and continued. 

It went on for another agonising minute, George’s muffled cries punctuating every thrust, until, preceded by much heavy breathing, the stranger let out a low, growling groan and was still, panting quietly. George blinked back tears and just lay there, feeling very sore and violated.

The stranger, having had enough, climbed off of George and could be heard making for the door. George heard the doorknob being turned and hoped that when the person opened the door he could catch a glimpse of his face. No such luck. The light in the hall was burned out. Whoever it was exited and carefully closed the door, protected by the all-encompassing darkness. George didn’t particularly feel like going after the miserable fucker to find out who it was, so he remained where he was for a few minutes, trying to calm himself.

He wondered who on earth it had been, as he really had no idea. He puzzled about this for a while, considering the possibilities. _Maybe it was that transvestite who took a liking to me,_ he thought _, or one of those faggoty-looking boys that like to hang out next to the stage sometimes..._ The thought kind of creeped him out.

George soon began to feel sleepy again, not having gotten much rest yet. He was afraid to go back to sleep, but was also desperately exhausted, so he compromised his fear with his need to rest by stumbling over to Paul and Pete’s room and collapsing on their floor. He grabbed someone’s smelly leather jacket for use as a pillow, and, with a few tears trickling down his face, fell asleep. 

By the time John got back to the cafe, Stu and the whore had nearly finished off the bottle of Scotch and were giggling and tittering, hanging onto each other’s necks.

“Here he is!” Stuart exclaimed, pointing at John. The hooker turned dizzily to look where Stu was pointing, and grinned happily when she saw John. She pried herself off of Stu’s neck and wrapped herself around John instead.

Stuart squinted at John and then asked, “You’re flushed, what happened?” He swayed slightly, still squinting at John.

“Eh?” John could only vaguely remember what he’d just done, and didn’t want to to boot. He knew he’d remember later, anyhow. All he wanted to do at the moment was to get down to business with the whore. “No idea.” He shrugged at Stu and then gazed down at the tart hanging about his neck.

She looked up at him questioningly and pointed to Stu, then back to him. “ _Beide_?” she asked. He nodded, understanding her meaning, and she grabbed both of their wrists and started dragging them behind her down the street. “Off we go!” said Stu gleefully. 

  


* * * * *

  


John woke some hours later with an aching head. He was lying on a saggy bed that smelled strongly of sweat and semen, and someone was nuzzling his neck. It was Stu. “Wake up.” John commanded and gave him a shove.

Stu’s eyes blinked slowly open and he twisted around in the bed, squinting about the room, a bit disoriented. 

“Mornin’.” John said when Stu’s eyes returned to him. “Fix your hair. You look stupid,” He added as he climbed out of the bed and pulled his trousers up. Stuart’s hair was ruffled from being slept on, making him look somewhat wild-animal-ish.

“Gee, thanks.” Stuart mumbled, as John went in search of their “companion”.

John found the whore in a doorway just outside the room they were in, smoking a cigarette. “Did we pay you?” he asked her, making motions with his hands to indicate money. It took her a while to get it, but soon she nodded. “Good,” he said, and went back inside.

Stuart had gotten up and was fastening and straightening out his clothes. “Let’s get to bed; I’m beat.” He said.

“Same here,” John replied. The two made their way back to the Bambi Kino and were asleep in minutes. John hardly noticed George’s absence. 

  


George jumped when Paul shook him awake that evening, his heart pounding madly. He then remembered where he was and calmed down.

“Whoa there, were you dreamin’?” Paul asked him.

“Uh, yeh.” George said vaguely. “Weird dream.”

“What are ya doin’ in here, anyway?” Paul asked him as he pulled on his trousers.

“Uhh...” George stalled, trying to come up with a good answer. He could think of none. “I’ll tell you later, I’m gonna go get ready.” He scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the room, leaving a very mystified Paul behind him. 

George puzzled over what he should do as he washed his face and hair in the bathroom sink. What _would_ he tell Paul? He wondered whether he should just tell him the truth. At least then he’d have someone to watch his back. If he was going to tell _anyone_ about what had happened, Paul would be the one to talk to since he didn’t know Pete all too well, and wasn’t particularly fond of Stu. _John would probably just laugh at me_ , he thought. His musings were abruptly interrupted by someone giving him a hefty slap on the back and shouting in his ear, “How’d you sleep m’boy!?” He nearly jumped out of his skin.

John, now laughing, ambled past him to one of the other sinks, with Stu following close behind, also laughing. George gave them both an angry glare, grabbed his towel and strode out of the room.

“What’s his problem?” Stu asked, smirking.

“Guess he didn’t sleep very well!” John replied, starting the two laughing again. John still remembered nothing of what he’d done earlier.

  


Paul and George were drunk. And high. It was fun. At the moment everything was funny. Every damn thing! The beer glasses on the table were funny. Their food was funny. The people speaking in German were funny. They had a good laugh at those things. They couldn’t understand how the others didn’t see the hilarity in the world around them. 

The buxom waitress was funny. The people on stage were too. Pete’s face was funny. Really funny. They couldn’t stop laughing at it. It was even funnier when he scowled at them and got up to leave.

John was just high. The world was not funny to him. He grabbed Pete by the arm and pulled him back down to his chair. He then snarled at George and Paul and made a swipe at them over the table, knocking over a few glasses. They were too quick though, and managed to dodge him.

John was funny too. They laughed at him and then stumbled away to another corner of the club. They found two empty barstools and claimed them, leaning heavily on the counter in their drunkenness.

George then remembered something that made him stop laughing. _Tell Paul... right?_ He thought. _Yes._ So he explained to Paul in detail what had happened to him.

“Some fag tried to shag me last night.”

“Ha ha! Really??”

“Yeah.”

“Who was it?”

“I dunno.”

Paul thought this was hilarious and laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself. Seeing Paul laugh made George laugh and he felt a bit better. Once Paul had calmed down a bit, he asked, “Whadda ya say we try an’ find out who it was, then?” 

“Soun’s good.” 

So the two got up and approached the nearest stranger. Paul asked, “Did you shag him?” motioning to George. The man looked confused and said something to them in German. Paul and George laughed and moved on to someone new. “You shag him?” No luck there, either. They gave up after harassing seven people and returned to the table where John, Stu, and Pete were sitting.

Paul grinned at the three of them as he and George sat down and exclaimed: “’Ey, you’ll never guess what happened to Georgie las’ night!”

“Enlighten us.” John said stonily, and with about as much enthusiasm as a rock. The other two didn’t seem to be any more interested than John. Paul took no notice of this.

“Go on, tell ‘em!” he said. He nudged George.

George looked reluctant, but the unwavering stares from all around the table managed to loosen his tongue a bit. “Eh, uhm... well, I was asleep n’I dreamed this bird was kissing me—“

“Ha! Likely scenario.” John scoffed, eliciting snickers from Stu and Pete.

George frowned. “Anyway... I woke up, an’ there was still someone kissin’ me, but it wasn’t no chick... it was some queer! He—“ 

At this point, John went rather pale and the haughty smirk he had been wearing was erased from his features.

The others were listening with disgusted fascination to George’s slurred narration, but John did not hear him. Vivid images rushed forward to fill the black void that had until now existed in his memory of the previous day. Guilt and embarrassment rushed over him in a wave as he recalled what he’d done, and he hoped the others wouldn’t notice the blush that now coloured his face.

Pete was saying that he wished George knew who did it so they could get even. There was general agreement from everyone. John knew what was expected of him in regards to this sort of occurrence, so he quickly spoke up so as not to seem out of character. “God-damn nellie faggot!” he growled, “Listen George, if anyone even _looks_ at ya funny again, jus’ show us where ‘e is an’ we’ll ‘elp you beat the shit out of ‘em, alright?” He made sure to look properly pissed off. 

Internally, he was vowing never to get drunk while he was around George again.

  


George noticed a change in the way John treated him after that night, a change for the better. He suddenly became very protective and, with bluster and fierce glares, warded off many an unsavoury stranger who took a liking to George’s youthful good looks. He also began to treat George much more nicely than he ever had before, making fewer jokes at his expense and being just a bit less condescending towards him. This made George very happy; he had always looked up to John and because of this it hurt much more when John treated him badly than when others did.

John, too noticed a change once he started being nice to George. George was much less annoying and seemed much more mature when he was being treated civilly. This was a remarkable discovery for John. He came to really enjoy George’s company as opposed to simply tolerating it as he so often had before. Initially, he had changed his attitude towards his young band-mate solely out of guilt, but _now_ he was doing it because he wanted to. 

Hot, yellow light burned down on the feverishly playing band onstage at the Kaiserkeller. They were exhausted and dripping with sweat from their long night of playing, yet their bodies twitched and shook with the artificial energy given them by handfuls of prellies. Something was different, however. There was no tension in the band tonight. Smiles were exchanged freely.

John launched the band into a fast version of ‘Peggy Sue’, doing a passable imitation of Buddy Holly’s unique vocal style, much to the delight of a few girls hanging around next to the stage. They watched him with something akin to awe in their eyes, a relatively new experience for the members of this particular band.

George was following along on rhythm and fully expected John or Paul to fill in the solo, but when it came time, no one ventured a note. They played another empty bar, and then John looked at him expectantly. 

With much surprise and a cautious eye kept on John, George quickly began the distinctive solo. Looking down off the stage for a moment, he saw that the adoring eyes of the girls were now glued on _him_. A jolt of excitement tore through him and he nearly messed up, but he just managed to keep playing, a wide smile spreading across his face. He turned to look at John and saw that John was smiling right back at him.

  


Later...

  


The five Beatles were spread out in various places, savouring the extra hours they had before they had to go back to work. Stu and Paul were each out on the city somewhere, and John, George, and Pete were reclining in their respective rooms and bunks.

Pete was asleep and could be heard snoring, John was doodling rude caricatures of Stu and Paul to surprise them with when they got back, and George was reading a magazine. John halted in the middle of drawing Paul’s hair and put down his sketchbook. He scooted forward on his top bunk and rested his chin on the metal bar at the head of his bed, gazing down at George. He said nothing.

George was aware of John watching him and tried to ignore it as best he could, but after a few minutes of incessant staring he was becoming unnerved. “What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at John.

John remained silent for a few moments, and then, to George’s astonishment, asked, “You wanna write a song?”

  


The End.

Note: The song that George and John wrote is a lovely little instrumental called “Cry For A Shadow”. 

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **WARNINGS:**  
>  Non-con with positive resolution, underage, period-typical homophobic language, prostitution (vague/mild description), drug use


End file.
